


Reunion

by JoAsakura



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Other, implied D/V
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22572412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: V and Dante meet again for the first time.
Relationships: Dante & V (Devil May Cry), Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BurnItAllDownDahling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurnItAllDownDahling/gifts).

_There is an infinite plasticity to demonic bodies, _V thought as he pushed open the door to Devil May Cry. The sheer fact the Yamato could so sunder Vergil Sparda along those uncanny fault lines in his existence was clear proof of that.

Even so, he had expected to see Dante just the same, just the same as he had been when he’d put down the Black Angel, when he’d shattered Mundus’ chains. Cocky, arrogant. _Unstoppable_.

He _needed _unstoppable Dante. Needed. Not wanted. He needed to use whatever he could. That was all. He needed power. Dante _was_power… Dante was…

So when he opened that door and the faint rank of old food and old laundry and the familiar sulfurous-metallic tang of Devil Arms seeping into the space between every atom in the decrepit office, V was perplexed.

Sprawled, louche in a battered office chair next to Morrison was a man who certainly resembled Dante, that was for sure. V hadn’t expected to smell or feel his brother in any of the ways that ever mattered to them, not with wholly human senses, but there was nothing.

[_Yikes_. Did Dante get… old?] Griffon murmured in the back of his brain.

Not old. Tired. _Broken_. It astonished him that Morrison didn’t see it, did’t see beneath the sardonic smile and the planned carelessness that he was talking to a bag of splinters held together by a red leather coat.

(He’s going to be useless,) V’s forebrain shouted loudly, loud enough to almost drown out the sudden pang of concern? Regret? Empathy? Human emotions that Vergil had let atrophy in his search for power, and had contracted to tiny pinpricks, feebly trying to make themselves known

Another thought then, this one filled with disappointment. (He doesn’t recognise me.) V watched Morrison leave, hardly listening to him. He hadn’t expected Dante to recognise him, had banked on Dante not recognisng him. And now he was heartbroken that his expectations were met. (Foolish.)

**

The old song and dance with Morrison was comfortable, Dante thought. Meaningless, but comfortable. He liked Morrison immensely and the relationship was mutually beneficial after all.

It was comfortable to wrap himself up in the garbage of humanity. Safe. Burrow beneath the pizza boxes and unpaid bills and dirty socks and that smile and shrug whenever Lady or Trish called him on it.

No one expected much of him, and that was the most comfortable thing of all.

But what walked into the door was not. Not at all comfortable. Too thin, too human to be reeking of the demonic power sitting just beneath the surface of his skin. Dante didn’t recognise the shape of his face or those narrow shoulders, but there was an acrid gag in the back of his throat. Familiar but too distant and too muddled for him to place with any accuracy.

None of it reached his face, the words popping off on automatic as he beckoned for this skinny, uncomfortable stranger to tell him his tale of demonic woe. The smile, the casual slouch, none of it belied the quickening concern ticking away behind his eyes.

He had worked so hard to hide the despair that gnawed in his chest. And every time someone walked through that door, he wished, without wishing, someone would notice the hollows behind his eyes.

But no one, not Trish, not Lady, not even Nero, ever did. Not even Morrison. Not this guy, for as intently as he was watching Dante pace, then plop down with boneless grace on the old, sprung couch.

And then. One single word.

“Vergil.”

**

V watched Dante’s shoulders tremble, and his lips pulled back from the careless expression he’d worn. His jaw twitched and he spoke with terrible softness about the stories and lies people told to get his help.

V shifted, feeling an alien knot of cold terror coiling up behind his breastbone. He couldn’t see Dante with the kind of eyes Vergil had always. There was no warning to a human’s senses as to what was going to happen save for an inexplicable, immediate dread.

Physically, Dante didn’t change, still sprawled like a tomcat on that ugly couch. But the warm, slovenly little office suddenly sat on the edge of a howling precipice. There was nothing remotely human in Dante’s eyes when he looked up.

And like an afterimage from a bright flash, or the paranoid squirm of a shape moving just out of the corner of his eye, V saw Dante’s wings unfurl. The overhead lights flickered without ever flickering, and there was the suggestion of too many teeth for a human mouth as he grinned.

“You have _gotta_ pick better names for your stories, y’know?” The cadence of the words was the same as before, sardonic and casual. But the actual sounds crawled with an abyssal growl that V felt in his bones more than truly hearing them.

For one stuttered heartbeat, V couldn’t think at all. Not even a rabbit’s instinctive drive to escape the jaws of the wolf. He almost couldn’t hear himself telling Dante about Redgrave over the gibbering howler monkey in his brain, the primate screaming over the apex predator sitting there with teeth bared. Almost couldn't hear himself over the cell-deep desire to be consumed by thing watching him, unblinking.

This was what it was like to be human in the presence of a Sparda, he thought frantically. And there, there was a moment of clarity, about this man/not man/demon/god who had been his twin a lifetime ago. A moment of clarity about his former self.

And then Dante folded back in on himself and the revelation died unborn in the wake of relief.

V smirked over the breath that came hissing out of his aching newborn lungs. He would smirk and sneer and tease because he needed _that _Dante. Not whatever broken thing had slouched beside Morrison.

Nothing else mattered but the power, he reminded himself.

And Dante _was_ the power.


End file.
